


Fiery Lamps and Snowy Stories [Snowbaz Fic]

by Lesbianna



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Ranbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: AU, AU - Baz works at IKEA, Baz rlly needs to get a boyfriend, M/M, Podficcer AU, Snowbaz Alternative Universe, Snowbaz alternative first meeting, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:59:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesbianna/pseuds/Lesbianna
Summary: Basilton loves fanfiction and podfics. There is no denying that. He loves falling asleep crying over somebody else, but he'd never let himself feel it for anyone he knows. He can't allow himself to hope, because the metahorical flowers inside him will suffocate him if he does.-In which Simon is a podficcer and Baz works at IKEA.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The podficcer WordFireSnow does not exist. All podfics referenced in this work are made by other readers and authors than Simon Snow.

Tyrannus Basilton “Baz” Grim-Pitch isn’t entirely sure why he’s up at four AM, checking out fanart. He just can’t help it - a cute drawing of Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson sitting in the chilly autumn air is just about everything he needs. And crying a bit over comics about how Kurt is dressing up for Blaine, because Baz is exhausted and hyped up on fanfiction and gay love is totally normal.

Basilton “Baz” Pitch isn't entirely sure why he's still up. It's past five AM now, but, what the hell, just one more fanfic can't hurt, can it? Just one more. Then he can sleep for a few hours. His shift doesn't start till ten, so at least that's something. But he doesn't have time to think more about this, because _honestly_ , he just saw that a new fic has been uploaded, and he has to find out what happens to Percy Weasley and Marcus Flint. Thirty-eight minutes and a wank later he has his answer. They fuck.

Baz is _really_ _not_ entirely sure why he’s still up. It’s slmost six AM, and his life is pretty much going to suck in the morning, but ohmygod, that fic was really _something_.  
This is _not_ all fanfiction means to Baz though. It’s not just well-deserved wanks in the middle of the night. It is love and hope and dreams.  
Fanfiction came to Baz during a troubled time a few years ago. He was fifteen, and confused over the way it made him feel when boys smiled at him, when his friend Dev’s hand accidentally grazed his, or - his personal most hated favorite - when he saw the boy in his gym showers who was sporting a hard-on, and had allowed his eyes to linger for just a moment. The boy had caught him staring. What he had done next, made sure that that memory was not exactly his proudest moment. _What a fag._ He could still remember it, the way it had felt as though a beautiful flower inside him shriveled up and died as he with his coldest voice called the boy the worst names he knew. _Disgusting poof._ The boy’s eyes had grown as large as teacups with unshed tears and his lips had trembled, and Baz had died a little more inside, though he didn’t know why... _Unlovable_ , he’d hissed. _Who’d love a poof._ The boy stared on, apparently rooted to the spot. _What are you staring at, you fairy?_ The boy had looked at him as though he had broken him, and Baz wondered if he himself hadn’t been broken. Broken by his own words.

That was why he hated that memory so much. But the seconds before, the moment where he had let arousal hit him, wrap itself around him like warm water and making him feel so good, that had been his favorite moment.

Well, at the time it hadn’t been. At the time, he’d run home, burrowed his face in his pillow, and cried his heart out. Then he’d dried off his tears, and allowed the flowers inside him to wilt.

That night, he’d sat down to re-read Harry Potter, when he thought about how in love Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy secretly was. They were obsessed with each other; Quidditch only truly meant something to Harry when Malfoy was playing, and Malfoy never passed up an opportunity to tease Harry. It was like they were pulling on each other’s pig-tails.

So Baz had pulled up his expensive laptop, and had typed in something akin to the words ‘Harry and Malfoy love story’. He hadn’t expected to see _that_ many stories about the two of them together. That night, he hadn’t gone to bed. He’d been too busy reading.

So, that was what had happened the day he had bashed a kid for having a boner while showering with the other guys; he’d found something new and familiar at the same time.

Discovering fanfiction was like coming home after a long walk outside in a gloomy weather; like coming home to hot cocoa and marshmallows. Even though Baz felt he didn’t deserve to feel like he was coming home, it was everything he needed. It still is. Sort of.

And now it is time to go to bed, he thinks, and rolls over in bed, plugging his phone into the charger. It is, after all a workday tomorrow. Today, actually, he reminds himself. He just needs to sleep. He yawns, and lets his eyes fall shut.

*

IKEA is hell. The warehouse in itself is bad enough, with all its endless corridors and labyrinth-like qualities that he will never quite get over. He’s worked here for a year and sometimes he _still_ gets confused, which sort of is starting to piss him off. Not because he _cares_ much about the intricate design of the floors of IKEA, nor their products, nor the amount of costumers, but because one of his new colleagues - an uptight bundle named Bunce - already knows everything about the entire building. She’s got lilac ringlets, which clashes annoyingly with her dark skin and eyes, not to mention her witch-like pointed glasses. _Purple. Purple glasses._ She’s horrendous, and annoying, and knows way too much for her own good, and Baz just might wind up killing her someday. She’s fucking _new_ and she knows so _much_.

On her very first day, she had started talking about how Ikea originally is from Sweden, and that the greatest, but yet most underrated movies of all times were from Sweden or something, and talked about how a specific bed was in this or that movie and how that actually had attracted quite a few costumers to IKEA back in 19- Baz had just tuned her out by then. She loves spewing out facts.

“Did you know that you can paint on these lamps?” she’s saying right now, as she’s picking up a white lamp. He glances at the tag. It’s a ordinary, white, boring lamp called LAMPAN. Probably Armenian or Swedish or something as equally freaky. “I think you can paint or draw on _anything_.” He drawls. Penny ignores him, and considers the lamp thoughtfully.

“I think my roommate would like this. Total fairy.” she says and laughs. He sets his jaw angrily. Fucking Bunce. Fucking Bunce needs to shut up right now, before Baz shuts her up himself. He can’t hear anything but those two words, as he pulls the LAMPAN out of her hand. _Total fairy._

 _Just a few more hours until you’re off. Just a few more hours, until you can go home, and read a Drarry fic_ , he chants to himself. _A few more hours. Just tolerate Bunce for a little while longer._

“You’re right, by the way.” She says.

 _Oh, so now she acknowledges that I’m right_ , he thinks prissily, and presses his lips together in a tight line to keep from smirking. He’s been told that his smirk looks too flirty, and flirting with a girl - however accidentally - is not exactly his cup of tea. Besides, _this_ girl is not only horrendously annoying, she’s also the type to make slurs about gay people. Though it was about time she admitted he’s right about something. Nevermind that he isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to be right about, but what the hell. At least he’s right about _something_ in her eyes. He wonders if anyone has mentioned to her that he’s gay.

“Oh, look, there’s a costumer,” he cuts into her tirade about women’s rights (he’d be more interested if it was the rights of fictional characters, but alas, Bunce is a boring _bitch)._ He doesn’t care how rude he sounds, as he snarls at her, exposing his teeth in a rather vampire-like fashion. Anything to escape her.

She doesn’t even look surprised. She’s apparently _that_ used to Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch snarling in her face. Can’t have people getting used to you, he tells himself, Maybe one day he should try by smiling to her. But not today.

He stalks away from Bunce, and turns down a corridor, takes a shortcut (he at least remembers every shortcuts) and ends up in the plant department.

And now he’s staring down at the potted Hyacinths on one shelf, stroking the petals of one of them absently.

He’s spent the last three years nursing those flowers inside him back to health, planting new seeds. Seeds of hope. Of dreams. But he hasn’t dared planting a dream of love yet. It’s too dangerous, too unreliable. It squelches every other dream with its roots and stems and leaves and great, gigantic petals. It’ll swallow him whole.

Besides, he doesn’t need to plant it. It grew all on its own.

And it probably doesn’t help that he reads so many ‘romance stories’ online in his spare time. That’s what he tells his sister, Mordelia (if she wasn’t his sister, he’d probably make a ‘I’d be _mortified_ to be you, _Mordelia_ ’ joke, but since his own name is even worse ( _really, Tyrannus? Thanks a lot)_ \- anyway, he tells Mordelia that he’s reading, whenever she catches him doing so on his phone. She probably thinks he’s got a boyfriend. And it’s not like he’s yearning for one. At all.

Now he’s practically watering a plant inside him he didn’t want to allow growing. He squeezes down on it. It would never work. He isn’t quite sure what he thinks would never work; squeezing down the flower, or a relationship. Maybe both.

*

Baz is miserable by the time he arrives home, and therefore it is only fair that he dives straight into bed, bringing Draco Malfoy straight with him. He barely even glances towards the closet, in which he keeps _it_. He just needs to read something adorable about Draco Malfoy being ridiculously in love with Harry, and that will definitely help. Or maybe not.

He clicks around on his favorite fanfiction websites, pointlessly hoping that somebody will have posted something short, something that will appeal to him. Something that’ll shake him out of this funk that he’s hopelessly drowning himself in. This sea of flowers and beating hearts and disgust over himself and the urge to strike a match to that thing in his closet.

He just needs something. Something. Anything.

 _[Podfic: Storm In A Teacup.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515988) _ He furrows his brow. He found this in the Drarry section on his favorite fanfiction website.

_Summary:_

_For reasons he'd rather not think about, Draco is obsessed with Potter's hair. This cannot end well._

He shrugs, and clicks on it. It turns out to include a link to someone reading the story aloud. Someone with a soft, rough voice, that is decidedly male and beautiful. He isn’t sure why he thinks this, but he likes it.

Although it certainly _is_ _not_ _short_ it _does_ appeal to him. Very much. So much so that he ends up crying, biting his pillow. The voice is so calming and so real and Baz feels like it’s cuddling up into him, wrapping itself around him, warm and real, and god… Baz is yearning for someone to go insane over his hair and fuss over it, and he’s surely going insane with the pure… purity of it all.

He taps the button that says ‘ _Follow: WordFireSnow’_ at the bottom of the story.

And lets himself relax. Because if Draco can find love, he probably can too. Oh, but he’d deny having thought that to anyone but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Podfic mentioned in this chapter: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7515988  
> SisiRambles is an amazing podficcer, and this story deserves the recognition.  
> Although she is not male, like Simon obviously is, this story definitely needs to be a part of my story.  
> Thank you for reading. xoxo


	2. Chapter 2

Soft music is playing. Soft music that ought to be calming and relax the tense muscles that has knotted themselves together in Baz’ back and shoulders, is only making him tense even more, only making his stomach cramp and his heart clench, because _of course_ that is what he will wake up to. A phone call with a ring tone he definitely did not set to this. He reaches out at grabs the phone off his bedside table, wildly considering just declining the call, but deciding to pick it up, if for nothing else, then to at least yell a bit at the caller.

“I thought I’d changed the ring tone!” he snarls into the phone. “Baz-“ Mordelia says, her voice timid and fearful, and Baz rubs his face in desperate anger. He feels like he’s falling apart, _and how can’t his stupid fucking little sister not understand this_? She’s only his half-sister, but he likes to think she’d have a sort of intuition for the things that she is not allowed to do. Putting that piece of music as her ringtone-

“Oh Baz... You used to love this piece and I thought-“

He doesn’t even bother dignifying her with a response. He clicks the red phone symbol and hangs up in righteous fury. He wouldn’t be surprised if steam came out of his ears.

He supposes he should feel guilty. And he does. Sort of. He feels guilty that he does not feel guilty. Does that count?

He wonders if he should apologize to her. Send her a text. Mordelia is one of the best people he knows. But he just doesn’t _want to._ It feels like too much of a lie. He’s lived enough lies.

His phone buzzes a few seconds later, and when he unlocks it, he immediately realizes she was too quick for him. Her text says this: _I’m sorry. You just used to love the piece, and you’ve been really weird lately, so I thought maybe it’d help you to hear that tune._ In other words: _I’m a complete idiot and I don’t realize how helpful it would be if I shut the fuck up and left my older brother the fuck alone._

He has decoded the first message within seconds, when the next text pop up on his screen. From Mordelia, again.

_You also need to learn to get past it, you jerk. You should start to get back to-_

He swipes at the screen and deletes the message without reading the rest. He can’t standing reading her acting as though…. As though she knows what’s best for him. He glowers at his closet.

As though- as if she knows a thing about _that_.

He glowers at the closet for a moment longer, then finds his work clothes - black, ugly pants with an even worse yellow shirt with IKEA EMPLOYEE emblazoned on it - and changes even though it’s _way_ too early to get to work.

The next text catches him off guard. He hears the loud buzzing of it going off on his bed, and he thinks for a moment of a blaring fire-alarm, for a moment he’s standing somewhere else- and then he snaps out of it

 _You really need to get a boyfriend, instead of deleting your sister’s texts._ He half snorts in disdain, half laughs. Mordelia knows him far too well. He’d never admit to her face that she was spot on about him deleting her texts, though, and he’s not about to do it over text either. He simply pulls his shirt properly down, finds a blazer - it’s impeccably ironed, of course. He may be an eighteen year old male living alone in an apartment, but he sees no reason to not dress according to his heritage, even if he does work in a fucking IKEA, which was another brilliant idea of his father’s. Baz is “Basilton”. Basilton is “Baz”. But no matter the name, he always has flowers.

Anyway. He shrugs on the blazer without crinkling the fabric in the least, and he does it with ease. His sneakers are next - expensive, but with smudges of dirt along the edges, which he quickly scrubs off with a paper towel. Impeccable. That is the ‘Basilton Pitch’ Baz shows to the world.

He makes a breakfast consisting of a bowl with oats, milk, chopped apple and banana. It’s nice, chopping the fruits and sprinkling the pieces over his breakfast as he finishes, projecting calmness into his hands. He does not need to chop one of his fingers off because his hands still are shaking over that damned ring tone. Which they totally aren’t. Nope. Not shaking. At all.

He looks down, examining his hands carefully, and growls. Stupid shaky hands. He quickly puts down the knife.

*

He’s just walking around town, quietly muttering under his breath about every person he passes, and probably causing everyone to peg him as a walking gay stereotype. That is just about his favorite hobby. Statements such as, “lovely complexion, deathly pale in the new black”, “come on, it’s September tomorrow, you should not still wearing khaki shorts in this temperature” and “loving the ‘do, but not the purse, it’s a travesty” follow just about every person he sees.

They all send him nasty glares, and he sniggers under his breath. Next, he turns his attention to the graffiti on the city walls. Most of it is crude stuff such as ‘MIA LIKES IT UP THE ASS’ (and beneath that is ‘she let me deflower her first dude’). But on a brick wall opposite the IKEA he notices a rather beautiful piece of graffiti. It’s a spray-painting of a boy, but it’s obvious that some of the details have been drawn on as well, probably with some of those everlasting pens or whatever. Shaggy curls has fallen into the boy’s face, and he is brushing the hair out of his eyes, giving a slight grin. It’s adorable, and Baz can’t help but fall a little in love with the way there’s a hint of domestic familiarity to the smile, like the artist was panting someone they know well. Perhaps a boyfriend.

It definitely wasn’t there when he walked home last night, which indicates that somebody spent several sleepless hours working on this. He likes the idea. Likes the careful way the boy’s neck is shaded and how his fingers are so very detailed, how his hair glints. Likes the thought of somebody recognizing the art in this.

*

When Baz encounters Bunce at work thirty minutes into his shift, she pounces on him, talking about the art-work on the wall.

“Did you see that painting across the street?” Baz wouldn’t exactly call the graffiti a painting, as it was very clearly more… Street art. “The one with the boy, I mean. Bronze curls, blue eyes?” she clarifies, before he even gets a chance to say a word. Her enthusiasm immediately makes him decide to shut up about how much he liked the ‘painting’.

“Yeah. I saw it,” he says in a clipped tone.

“Did you like it?” she asked eagerly. He wonders if she really is that much into the freedom of speech that she wants his opinion on some random street kid’s portrait of a boy.

“As you were,” he says, and cannot help being irritated, and Bunce just grins, perhaps taking his reluctance to answer as a yes. He sighs, pulls out his phone, plugs in his headphones, and scrolls through his Spotify playlists. He’s got lots of them. Any decent person does. He cannot trust someone who doesn’t have different playlists according to their mood.

He can’t stop thinking about the sound of the music this morning, the sound of the violin playing Liebesleid by Kreisler (and he can’t stop thinking about how he still remembers the name of the piece, and how sad and fucked up that is).

He clicks on the playlist he has compiled of angry music.

Killing In The Name by Rage Against The Machine seems like an excellent choice he thinks. A song wherein the word ‘killing’ is used in the title will always be a great choice when Bunce is standing next to you. It’s an excellent way to blow off steam.

_“Some of those that work forces, are the same that burn crosses”_

“I love that song,” Bunce remarks loudly, as she ticks an item of the to-do list she has fished out from the depths of her bra. He imagines her to-do list consists of points that go something like this:

  * Annoy Basilton
  * Annoy Basilton
  * Annoy Basilton
  * Die
  * Resurrect yourself and annoy him some more.



“Oh look, a costumer,” Baz says, and hurries away dignifiedly. There are no costumers needing help. Both he and Bunce knows it. At least that means she knows he hates her.

“ _And now you do what they told ya, now you’re under control!”_

*

 _”Drug money is used to rig elections and train brutal corporate sponsored dictators around the world”_ the band sings. Baz doesn’t even bother to check what the song is called, it doesn’t matter. It fits. Life is a prison, we’re all just too drugged up to see it, too addicted to the way it feels to just watch the shadows on the cave wall rather than actually watch the fire flicker.

The rush has just begun, and Baz has to run around like crazy, rearranging wares, helping people find the right items (“No, I hate to tell you this Mrs, but the adult-sized beds are on the next floor. There is an elevator over here though, shall I show you the way?”) and sending kids back to their parents.

“Baz, I need your help with linen, we’re in a crisis,” Bunce says from behind him, as he efficiently wipes kids’ drool off a chair that has been set out for show.

“This old grandma couldn’t find the toilets, and her husband suggested… Well, we need some more bed sheets,” she says, sounding quite helpless.

There are no words for the horror and disgust Baz feels at those words. “I hope you cleaned up after her, Bunce.”

Bunce’s lower lip wobbled, as she nods. “It was horrible. Disgusting.”

“It’s IKEA Bunce. Learn to live with it.”

She sighed.

*

“You’re the ‘ix-nay on my uefeelingstray’ type aren’t you?” Bunce notes as she annoyingly relaxedly grabs the last stack of bed linen and stacks it precariously in his arms. It wobbles, as he stares incredulously at her. _What. The. Fuck._ He isn’t even sure what she was saying, but if working with smartass Penelope Bunce has taught him anything, it is that incredulity is the only answer to staying sane. Bunce isn’t sane. Not even a little bit.

She proves this, by considering the linen in his arms with a calculating look and saying, “I think it would look great with a little bit of graffiti on it.”

 _What. The. Fuck. Bunce?_ “Like that painting,” she clarifies, without looking at him.

That really did not clarify a thing.

He sneers at her, and says his usual line about there being a costumer, even though the store room is entirely empty, and strides off. He and Bunce has already made the deal that since she cleaned up after that old lady who couldn’t control her bladder, he will put the new bed sheets there. If it wasn’t for the fact that he knows that the same old lady is currently roaming the third floor where Bunce is currently headed, he’d have refused. But alas, he likes knowing that Bunce will be completely flustered in front of the old lady.

*

It’s when he’s on his way back to his apartment, already planning to spend the night in, perhaps attempt writing some stories himself, that he sees the boy. He’s passing a coffee shop, and there he is, and all Baz can think is, _cute_.

The boy is cute, bronze curls straying out from the ridiculously cute bowler hat all the employees seem to wear, but that flatters him in an entirely unflattering way. The way he handles the coffee machine is cute. He’s clumsy and yet efficient. Baz watches him as he sees him snatch up two pastries and stuff them into his mouth, munching happily on them, while he scrawls someone’s name on a cup with his other hand. Baz chuckles, as the adorable boy drops his scone as he tries to write. He looks down at the pastry, as though it just betrayed him and his entire family.

Baz is seriously considering stepping inside and asking for the boy’s number, when the boy picks the scone up _off the floor_ and _just continues eating it_. He watches this with incredulity, because _honestly_ , surely no one over the age of, what _, five_ would be stupid enough to continue eating something that _fell_ on _the floor?_

The boy grins and swallows this last bite and waves at Baz. He raises his arm, when he notices a blonde girl quickly stepping in front of him and waving, and it turns out the boy wasn’t waving at him at all. He sighs. Maybe he does need to get a boyfriend. Or a date. Or just a night in, with a fanfic and some tissues to blow his snotty nose in.

*

He clicks on WordFireSnow’s profile on his laptop the moment he comes home, not entirely sure why he is doing it, and uses the filters on the site to narrow down his search (WordFireSnow has quite a lot of stories on their account) to angst. He knows it’s a bad idea; he still isn’t sure why he’s doing this, except he knows he needs to feel like he isn’t alone in having his heart breaking, needs to feel that some people have worse heartbreaks than him, _actual_ heartbreaks.

When he clicks on one - a very short one - called _‘Scent Memory’_ with the summary _"Draco's been away for five years but it wasn't long enough”_ he _definitely_ knows it’s a bad idea, but he _needs_ it. Why? He doesn’t exactly know that, but he _does_ know that he needs it.

He listens to the story intently, and within the space of the 5 minutes and 7 seconds the podfic lasts, he is reduced to a blubbering mess. No one dies in this story like he had half expected (most people use death as their angst): but Draco and Harry love each other still, even after five years, five years where Draco left England entirely, where he left everything behind, hoping to forget. But he could never forget. And now he’s back, and Harry and Draco still love each other, still remembers, but they are impossible, because they’re Harry and Draco. Because Harry is with Ginny, who is a comfort, but not Draco, and Draco cannot let Harry in, cannot let him have his secrets, and Baz is a blubbering, quivering, sobbing mess now. Because something has died. Hope has died. Another wilting flower, within somebody else’s stomach. Another flower just died.

And it hurts, just how real it is.

* * *

 

 **Things Baz listens to in this:**  
Liebesleid by Kreisler  
Killing In The Name by Rage Against The Machine  
Prison Song by System of A Down  
[Podfic: Scent memory by readoutloud](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7167980)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter contains an a bit graphic fantasy, based off a podfic. Because Baz is disturbed. Ask anyone.

Bunce is yelling like crazy. Baz is busy trying to help people and apparently kidnap kids.

It’s not Baz’ fault that this kid likes his scowl. Today a little girl in a pink tutu is giggling and trying to make him smile. He’s sure she’ll be trying to convince him to wear a tutu just to spite him. She’s been following him for the past thirteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds, no matter how he has tried to escape. And now he has had _enough_ , and turns towards the girl.

“Where is your mother?” he asks sternly, as she latches onto his leg. Her hair is dark black, and she looks so _happy_. It’s actually _indecent_. No one is _that_ happy in a fucking IKEA, Gods! “Get - off!” he growls, and shakes his leg angrily. Fucking kid isn’t having any of it though. She’s clinging to him, her fucking godamn nails digging into his skin. Damn kid with her damn tutu and drool covered chin. He has work to do though, so he turns, annoyed, and starts making his way back to his work. The girl squeals happily and clings even more to him. “GET - OFF!” he shouts. She just _giggles._

“PAIGE!” a woman - hopefully a mother - shouts. He breathes a sigh of relief, as Paige (?) shouts, “ma!” back. He turns towards the woman - and she starts speaking to him before he can thank her for getting this horrid child off him (the girl is sliding herself down his leg and landing in a giggling heap on the floor). The mother’s voice is cold with badly contained and completely unjustified fury:

“What were you doing with my daughter, you pervert?”

He glares haughtily at her. “I assure you, I did not particularly enjoy having your daughter drool over my pant leg.”

The mother looks stumped. He can’t help the tiny flare of victory.  
*

The second flare of victory of that day comes when Bunce spills her coffee in the lunch break. All over her shirt.

He’s got his earbuds in and is humming along to some generic pop-song from a few years ago ( _I can’t let go, even if I tried, I can’t, I can’t sleep at night)_ that he refuses to accept applies to himself, even if not in the sense of having a boyfriend or even a real crush. Bunce just walks straight into him. Maybe she called out to him, maybe she just wasn’t watching, which is actually more likely, as she was talking rapidly on the phone, while clutching her coffee-cup. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s cute Si. Sure. Come on, just ask him out. How bad can it be? SHIT!”

When her shoulder connects with Baz’ the coffee splashes out and covers her chest in creamy caramel latte. Baz disinterestedly registers that it’s a testament to his gayness that he’s more interested in the kind of coffee it is than the fact that said coffee is currently all over her shirt, making it see-through. He feels embarrassed, and is about to help her get a clean shirt when -

“Out, out damned spot!” she yells. Of course Bunce has to go and be weird now. He just stares at her. Technically he has a jacket in his bag in the office, but no way is he giving it to Bunce _now_.

“wha’?” a voice (Si?) asks through the phone sounding confused.

“My boobs are in agony Si.” Bunce says pathetically into the phone.

She peels off the shirt, and patters off to her locker.

“My roomie’s gonna kill me… This is their shirt… That annoying twat is just so-“

He isn’t sure what does it. Maybe it’s the fact that Take Me To Church is playing in one of his earbuds, and the line ‘ _I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife’_ is playing and he’s sick of Bunce, and fuck, life just sucks right now, because of _course_ it’s Penelope Bunce standing there half naked, and not someone like… Seamus Finnigan, and _of course_ she’s being homophobic and _fuck-_

“Stop that Bunce!” he half-snarls, half screeches. “What?” Bunce looks so studiously innocent, that Baz is not for a second doubting that she’s faking it. Her eyes are wide and questioning, but with a glint of mischief in them.

“Stop being so homophobic, I’m sure your roommate doesn’t appreciate it! We’re actually people, no matter who we are, no matter that we’re queer, and _WILL YOU STOP LAUGHING_!”

Bunce is laughing openly at him, her eyes so full of mirth that he scowls at her.

“Oh, it’s not gay people I dislike, it’s Trixie,” Bunce says, once she’s gotten her breath back, her agonized boobs apparently forgotten.

Oh. _Oh._ Baz blinks.

“Wait, you thought… Oh god.” She breaks down into laughter once again.

“I just couldn’t stand hearing you critiquing people like that.” He snaps back. But just smiles toothily and says. “Again, nothing against gay people. Everything against you and Trixie. You’re an asshole, and Trixie is totally not good enough for her girlfriend.”

Oh. _Oh_. Baz blinks. Stumped. She actually already knew he was gay, judging by the fact that she didn’t even react when he classified himself as part of that group. That fact is only just now sinking in.

“Besides, you criticize me _all the time_ ,” she says. He huffs, and tells her only people who deserve it get his disdain. She grins. “Same goes for Trixie.”

“Have you got a boyfriend?” Bunce then asks curiously.

“No,” he admits. And then he glares at her, because he didn’t want to admit that he’s so pathetic he hasn’t even got a fucking boyfriend. Fucking hell. And yeah, today’s a day for cursing a lot, apparently.

“Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re like a candle in the wind?” she says impatiently.

“Uh.” What the hell does that even _mean_?

She sighs with a sad smile, as though his confusion was all the answers she needed. “You’re not the type to do one night stands I think, but you might be scared.”

Baz isn’t sure he’ll _ever_ understand what’s happening when Penelope Bunce speaks.

*

The boy is working again today. Baz isn’t entirely sure why he’s walking past again. Maybe Bunce’s curious nature is getting the best of him, and he’s - gasp - on the road to ending up like her!

Whatever the reason, he is standing in the same spot as yesterday, _watching the boy make whipped cream - from **scratch**!_ He’s been in that café before, a few months ago, and he knows for certain that their whipped cream comes from a crappy machine; but the mystery boy - still wearing that ridiculous hat - is taking out a cream saucer from the fridge in the bar, and whipping the cream right there, with movements so fluid and athletic. He looks beautiful, Baz thinks, with his almost golden hair curling out from under that hat. He looks like a prize.

Baz pulls out his phone as he slides down on a bench directly opposite the café, still watching the boy. Hm. The boy’s hair is falling into his eyes now, curls escaping and he’s _laughing_ and fixing it, and Baz is watching the way his chest heaves with laughter. He wonders what it would look like if he were heaving for other reasons. The boy is slender, but not skinny. His upper arms flexes as he uses the blender easily, his fingers clumsily but eagerly writing names on cups.

He types in ‘WordFireSnow Klaine podfics’ in the fanfic website’s search bar before he even knows what he’s doing. He scrolls down, and - there. This he can listen to.

He barely even thinks about the fact that he’s now clicking on a podfic called [‘Marked’](https://archiveofourown.org/works/729090) with the rating ‘EXPILICIT’ and the description ‘ _Porn Without Plot. Hickey/bruise play. Marking. A little kinky’_ and is planning on listening to it while staring at some unknown boy, because now the boy is smiling again, and it’s incredibly attractive.

He clicks play on the screen, and the voice fills his ears once again. He likes the way the story is filled with humor, like sex can be both comic and passionate.

He can imagine that kissing this boy would be like that. Passionate and wild, and they’d laugh against each other’s lip. Not because it was _forever_ for they were in _love_ but because it felt right and funny and because Rules suck.

The boy has a long neck, and Baz is pulled from his musings about Rules sucking just as much in his life as it does in Blaine’s - cause honestly, why can’t they just _shag already? -_ to just stare. Because at the thought of sucking that neck, at the thought of being that close and sucking, licking, nipping, making the boy squirm and writhe, moan, make breathy sounds, whisper his name over and over, his head thrown back as he writhes on top of Baz, his entire body shivering, even though he’s fully clothed, just like Kurt is and just like Blaine is in this podfic. His own breath is shaky, his sight going muddled, and he is _this close to losing it_ , when the boy’s eyes locks with his.

“ _Hi_ ,” the boy mouths at him, and Baz is sure he is going to die. Sure that he will combust with shame, because the boy must have seen the look in his eyes, must have seen the way his stomach is churning with want and now embarrassment. _You do not just go around staring lustfully at strangers_ , _you simply do not,_ he berates himself.

He’d almost gotten off on a voice in his ears and the sight of a boy smiling and breathing and just _being a boy_.

He sighs. He seriously needs to get laid. He sarcastically salutes the boy, and gets up from the bench.

He needs to get laid. But right now he just needs to get rid of his embarrassing hard-on.

**Things Baz listened to in this:**

Can’t Let Go by Faydee

Take Me To Church by Hozier

[Marked - read by oohshinyfangirl (in the fic read by WordFireSnow)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/729090)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to make guys sound attractive. I'm too much of a lesbian for that.  
> Did I succeed a little? xoxo


	4. Chapter 4

Baz has the next day off from work. He wouldn’t exactly know what to do with his day if it wasn’t for the fact that the internet is a thing.

(He’d never admit it to anyone, but he sort of _misses_ IKEA when he isn’t there, which honestly is so stupid and nothing like what - in his opinion - a true Grimm-Pitch should feel like. He doesn’t like the people there, or the wares, or even the building itself, but he likes the way it gives him something to do, somewhere to go. Besides, rebelling quietly against his father by disliking the job he gave him, is sort of a _Baz_ thing to do, and Baz will be damned if he doesn’t do as many _Baz things_ as possible.)

Twitter seems like a nice way to waste some time right now. He needs to learn to disengage himself from fanfiction for just a few hours at the very least. So, Twitter it is. His fingers fly over the laptop keyboard, retweeting, following, and liking, over - and over - and over - again.

But of course, just like wanking over the wrong sex, it gets boring eventually - pretty quickly - , and so Twitter got boring for Baz Pitch. He considers texting the oldest of his sisters, but he knows Mordelia will be _concerned_ with him. He knows she cares about him, but he wishes it didn’t feel like she was suffocating him with her worrying. It’s like she’s trying to be someone who… isn’t here anymore. He bites his lip hard, cutting off the blood circulation in it. He wasn’t supposed to think about that, he’s not _ever_ supposed to think about that. He needs to stop. He needs to stop, and he needs to stop _now._

But he doesn’t. He opens up a Word document on his laptop. And he starts writing.

*

_Once upon a time - that is how all tales should start, isn’t it?_

_Well, once upon a time, there was a boy. A boy with a dream; to be loved and to let his own love for the lover overpower him. A boy who just wanted, who just loved, and who wanted and loved all the wrong things._

_A boy whose eyes were dark blue like the ocean, mixed with the deep green of the rainforest. A boy who hoped, and who dreamed. Who rode horses on the prairie,_

_A boy who was loved and cared for, a boy who was held and almost overpowered by his family’s love for him. A boy who smiled, who let his emotions run free, like wild horses on the prairie._

_And then came the fire. The all-destructive fire. The fire that swept up everything and swallowed everything._

_The boy’s eyes were now grey as pavement._

_And they’ll always be grey, those eyes, always grey as wet pavement. The fire burned out the warmth in his eyes, and the rain afterwards made him soggy and cold._

_And he’ll always be that way. He’ll always be like wet pavement from now on._

He considers ending it with a, “ _Not all tales end happily_ ,” but somehow feels he’s crossing a line. If anyone ever read this story, they should know that instinctively, just from reading the other parts. He shouldn’t have to explain himself.

He saves the document as ‘Fire Kills’ and closes the window. Then he just sits for a moment, or maybe he doesn’t _just sit_ , because next thing he knows he has opened a browser and typed in the webpage of the fanfiction site. He scrolls around for a bit, finds the list of people he’s following. No one has updated anything since yesterday. He feels it like a blow to the gut.

 _A fallen angel in the dark, never thought you’d fall so far…_ He barely even realized he’d started playing music. He quickly turns it off, not because there’s any danger of him disturbing anyone with loud music, but because it makes him think, and it makes him feel. And these feelings are too hard to deal with right now, so he feeds them to the flesh eating flowers in his stomach.

He needs something. He needs to feel something that isn’t sad and lonely.

Though he does find it sort of sad and sort of lonely, how the only thing he feels he has right now, is a bunch of stories about people he has never met, and will never meet.

He quickly types in the words ‘cute drarry fanfic’ then reconsiders, and clicks in on WordFireSnow’s profile, sets the settings to ‘oldest first’ and finds a podfic instead. There. This one seems like the right thing for him right now.

[[Podfic] Two Birds, One Stone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9054049)

_”Living with a former Slytherin has its price, but it's okay because two can play at that game.”_ He clicks on the link and sees a picture of two rubber birds that has been knocked over by a stone. Is he supposed to take this literally? He decides to listen.

He laughs to himself as he listens. Maybe it’s true that he’s never actually _seen_ Harry and Draco, but he’s met them. He’s met them over and over and over again. He has watched them fall in love over and over again and again. He’s listened to them quarrel over the stupidest things, and helped them fight their demons.

And he loves doing so with WordFireSnow.

The next day after that, the little kid he apparently ‘kidnapped’ is back at IKEA again, this time in an officer uniform (but still wearing the pink tutu) and running after him. He’s wondering if this is what it feels like when a small animal believes you’re its mother. He hopes not; he pities those unfortunate imprinted ones then.

Baz makes good use of his ‘there is an invisible customer that I have to help _this instant_ ’ excuse, and runs off at least five times that day. The kid runs after him, giggling, until eventually it isn’t giggling anymore, but has emptied out its stomach on his pant leg.

The worst thing is, that Bunce has her hot - hot-hot-hot- _hot_ boyfriend over to pick her up. “Baz, this is Micah, my boy-toy for the past three years,” (and yes, Baz does choke on air at that description) “-Micah, this is Baz, my colleague who has to deal with old ladies shitting in the bed linen.” She introduces them briefly. Baz only gets to catch a glimpse of a set of brilliant white teeth, flawless skin and messy dark hair, that falls into his eyes as he grins slyly at Baz, (which _does not at all_ remind him of Harry Potter _, why should it?)_ and gives him a firm handshake that oozes of heterosexuality.

He scowls angrily at Bunce’s back as she leaves with Mr McHot Potter-Doppelganger.

**Things Baz listened to in this:**

Fallen Angel by Three Days Grace

[[Podfic] Two Birds, One Stone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9054049)


	5. Chapter 5

Baz is tired. Not just from lack of sleep. He’s just.. _tired._ He doesn’t know how he’s going to get through a whole day of work at fucking _IKEA_ , but on the other hand, he wouldn’t know what to do to get through a whole day without something to distract him.

He runs a hand through his half-long locks of hair. A persistent lock bafflingly enough insists on curling around his left ear, making him look like a prepubecent twelve-year-old. He’s tempted to just leave it be, because _who fucking cares_ , but he remembers how Mordelia used to tug at that particular strand of hair when she was just a little younger than she is now. The memory makes him ache, makes his heart constrict, and he can’t, he can’t leave his hair like this, so he pulls out the hair gel, slicks his hair back, makes sure to get that particular strand slicked out and smoothened against his skin.

Then he smoothens out his shirt, and leaves the apartment. Too early. Again. He just can’t bear it right now. Can’t bear being alone, can’t bear being with people.

The memory of Mordelia - little Mordelia at the age of five, with her big dark eyes and long, impossible eyelashes - curling her fingers around that lock of impractical curling hair and tugging lightly, giggling and jumping up and down is just _too much_. He _knows_ it’s been so long. He _knows_ she’s ten years old now, and much, much wiser than she was at the age of five, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s still Mordelia, still so alive and wonderful, and he’s just dead inside. The flowers killed him.

Besides, Mordelia hasn’t texted him for a few days now. He’d never admit it, but he misses her, like he misses IKEA when he isn’t working.

He thinks about the graffiti painting he saw the other day, the one with the boy with the bronze hair who’s laughing so beautifully. He wonders how the boy is. Which is sort of stupid, since it’s a _painting_ , but he can’t help it. He knows that boy is real.

So he stops in front of the wall covered with the boy’s face, already expecting bright eyes and bronze hair and shy smiles, when he realizes that the face has been covered in the same symbol over and over again. The reverse Swastika. He feels anger building up inside him, because _that is someone_ , and _someone used their time to paint that boy on a wall and then someone had to deface it_ and _with that fucking_ symbol and it’s just _not right_ , and then he’s squashing down his emotions just like he flattens down his hair.

_Imagine there’s no heaven… It’s easy if you try._

*

“Remember that painting of the pretty boy?” he asks Bunce conversationally, as he steps into the employment room at IKEA. She looks up and smiles toothily. “Yeah?” He has the feeling she temporarily likes him because of how flustered he was at seeing her boyfriend yesterday (he is _really_ good looking okay, and it had maybe, sorta, kinda destroyed Baz, because when will any guy that reminds him of Harry Potter be _single_ and up for meeting a dark-haired Draco?)

He sighs, and returns his attention to the matter at hand, which is: the painting. “Some jerk painted Nazi signs all over it.”

Bunce narrows her eyes dangerously. If he didn’t know Bunce is a twat who won’t clean up after an old lady did her business even though SHE was the one who should have been doing it, he’d probably be scared of her right now. He’s not.

“I’m gonna be really upset when I see that…” she sighs, and continues, saying that it’s a good thing Micah’s picking her up, because he knows how to comfort her.

And because Baz is disturbed, he can’t help asking exactly _how_ Micah comforts her. Luckily she refuses to tell the details (as if Baz is asking for _details_ about their heterosexual sexlife! If Micah was gay however… Now _that would be interesting!)_ and leaves him to do his work. Finally.

*

They’re stepping out of the back door at work together today, and he’s contemplating walking past that coffee shop again, just to check out the cute boy who actually whips cream, instead of using a machine to drip it into the coffee. It’s possible that he’ll also be listening to a podfic, possible that he’ll be perving on that neck and those arms.

Then he remembers what happened last time, and scratches that last idea out of his mind.

“They think they’re Number One in Heaven. Assholes!” He hears Bunce exclaim angrily, and he snaps his head up, and is faced with the artwork on the opposite wall, still defaced with reverse Swastikas. His heart is aching, because he just _knows_ the artist checks up on this painting regularly, or maybe even the model does. He refuses to believe it’s aching for anything else.

“Number one in heaven?” he then asks, curiously, because _that’s_ a new insult, maybe he should take to use that one.

Bunce turns her eyes on him, she’s almost vibrating with rage.

She grabs his phone, ( _HEY_ , he wants to scream, because _what if she breaks it or something???_ goes to Spotify, and types in a song, gives him back the phone and then shoves his headphones into his ears once again, before flouncing off to see her boyfriend.

He listens to the song.

_“Number one in heaven, with a bullet_

_Remember who I am”_

And here he’s thought _he_ could be dramatic. He seriously needs to step up his game. Clearly guys digs it, he thinks, as he sees Mr McHot Potter-Doppelganger hug her warmly, before leaning down to peck her lips.

*

As he stumbles into bed that evening, he pulls out his phone immediately. No texts, of course, but that is not important right now. He hasn’t even changed into his pajamas, but he needs to _feel_ , needs to _hear_.

So of course WordFireSnow is the name he types in, and he scrolls down, down, and finds a Drarry podfic.

[[Fic & Podfic] The Thirty-Sixth Candle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099714).

_Summary:_

_Draco celebrates his 36th Birthday._

He does some easy calculations in his head, and remembers that this means it’ll be happening the year before the horrific epilogue in Deathly Hallows; it will mean that Harry is about to turn 36 soon as well.

He hovers over the link. He needs something that isn’t too epilogue compliant. He needs something that tells him that there is a happy ending for everybody, even for those that people didn’t like in the beginning. For someone like _him_. He almost doesn’t click it, because what’s the use in watering the flowers, they’ll kill him if he nurtures them, but then he does.

WordFireSnow’s voice washes over him, and he lets himself dream of a brighter shore with magical candles.

**Things Baz listens to:**

Imagine by John Lennon

#1 In Heaven by MNDR

[[Podfic] The 36th Candle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099714)


	6. Chapter 6

He doesn’t know why he does it. He just supposes he likes to torture himself - because _yes_ it is actually torture, to do this. After the embarrassing encounter-that-wasn’t-even-an-encounter with the cute barista, he had half resolved to never actually visit the shop. To have been caught staring lustfully at the barista through a window is just… oh god, it’s so _embarrassing_. But Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch never lets such a little thing as all-encompassing embarrassment stand in his way. He’s going to go in there and get a cup of coffee, and be totally normal, and if he’s lucky ( _unlucky_ , his mind whispers) the cute barista won’t even be there.

And if, on the off chance the boy is there… Well, that’s not even something Baz is going to consider. Because he won’t be. And it’s not like Baz is studying his chest in his bathroom mirror, considering whether the blue shirt is too tight a fit, whether it screams ‘I need to get laid, _stat!_ ” too much.

It isn’t like that at all.

(He goes with the blue shirt.)

He puts on the waistcoat he adores. His mom always- _stop._

Baz isn’t even supposed to go anywhere today, there is absolutely no reason for him to go to that stupid coffee bar and order a cup of mediocre coffee. Especially since it lies closer to IKEA than his own apartment, and he doesn’t have to go to work today.

But he knows he has to go in there. Show the world that he isn’t afraid.

So he crosses town in the chilly mid-September air, and without looking in the windows of the shop, he walks in.

In retrospect, he totally should have. Because there, behind the counter is the boy. Bronze curls falling into his eyes from under the ridiculous hat, singing along with the female voice blowing through the speakers.

_“Hit the loving spot  
I'll give you all I've got”_

And even though the boy is a terrible singer (he can’t hit _a single note right_ ) there is something magical about watching him bounding around, stuffing his face with cookies and singing about-

 _“I want to love you_  
Pretty young thing  
You need some lovin'”

The boy looks up at him as the door closes, and his smile is _radiant_ , so pretty, his eyes a pretty blue color. Baz’ breath catches and- obviously the boy is smiling at someone else. Who would be so trusting to smile like that to someone they don’t even _know_?

 _“Tender love and care_  
And I'll take you there  
I want to love you”

Except he isn’t. He’s looking directly at Baz, and waving him over.

Soon the boy is asking him for his order, and _oh, yeah, coffee._   
Baz tells the flower inside him to stop gnawing at his intestines, because he can’t deal with that right now, he’ll just have to deal with the pain for now. He tells the boy he needs to have a moment to consider what to order.

The song changes to something that isn’t a Michael Jackson cover, but something else. He doesn’t really care. The boy is mouthing along to some of the words, clearly not as confident in this song as in the other, but he’s still bounding around, making coffee.  
And then he steps forward, and orders his drink. He’s surprised at the order himself, because when has he ever ordered hot chocolate with whipped cream, by himself, in a coffee bar. But the boy grins. “I love making whipped cream, it’s the best!”

Apparently so. The boy is certainly enthusiastic, going to work with familiarity and a sense of humor. When he almost drops the bowl he just smiles, instead of being annoyed, and chit-chats with the other employees and even a bit with Baz himself, as he prepares for whipping up cream.

The boy’s voice is… Familiar. Homey.

*

And apparently the boy knows how to make a killer hot chocolate with whipped cream, because it tastes amazing. Baz allows a small smile to graze his lips as he catches the eye of the barista over his mug. Blue eyes meet his, and they just look at him for a moment, blinking lazily.

*

He gets a text from Fiona when he’s halfway done with the cocoa. She’s condescending but loving in that wonderful way of hers, and invites (orders) him to visit her. So he finishes his mug, and brings it to the counter, because _manners_.

And then he puts on his coat again, and it’s out of the warm, coffee-scented air, out of the safe embrace of the coffee shop. He almost wants to slump, but _no_ , this whole thing was to show the world that nothing brings Baz down, so he walks with a straight back, inhaling the chilling air. It’s gotten a bit colder now, too.

He feels hot and cold at the same time, as he glances back to look through the window, and is disappointed to see that the bronze-curled boy isn’t looking after him.

But what did he expect?

*

Fiona’s apartment is as pretentious as always. She’s got money, the whole family has. That’s why he’s pretty surprised to notice a lamp in her bedroom. It isn’t even a new addition. It’s been here every time he visits, but he _notices_ it now.

“Is that a LAMPAN from IKEA?” he asks curiously, fiddling with the lamp. Aunt Fiona looks confused. She probably wouldn’t be so confused if it hadn’t been the first sentence he’d spoken to her today other than “pleased to see you again aunt”. “I. Uh. It’s from IKEA, yeah. Don’t know if it’s called… Whatever you just called it. I could look it up?”

“No,” he says. He isn’t sure what even made him ask. “Just surprised someone in _our_ family buys things in IKEA,”

Fiona shoots him a glance. He can tell what she’s asking, and shakes his head, mouthing, _No, not yet._

Her perfectly painted eyebrows shoots up and she grins. He smirks lightly, and thinks of hot chocolate.

*

At home, he opens the document with his own story and bites his lip. Would it hurt to… He decides quickly. A few taps on his keyboard, a quick search, and a few minutes later he’s done.

He doesn’t even have to pull out his phone and listen to WordFireSnow’s voice tonight. He snuggles under his blanket, mouthing _pretty young thing_ sleepily. And then he’s gone.

He dreams of whipped cream and his rebellious aunt who bought a lamp from IKEA even though she could afford an antique one if she was even interested.

  
**Things Baz listens to in this:**

P.Y.T. by Eden Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi.  
> I'm sorry I haven't been updating for a while, life just hasn't allowed me to sit down and write. I'm hoping to get back on track though.   
> xoxo


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm going to get back to work on this fic, finally.  
> So, enjoy getting back in the head of human!but-still-angsty-as-fuck!Baz Pitch, who works as an employee at IKEA.

Baz carefully smoothens down his hair, not letting the curl escape him, and shakes his head wildly, so that his hair tumbles over his shoulders, watching in the mirror as his black locks settle quietly.

She always had her hair in a ponytail, he thinks, as he tugs on a handful of hair. It has taken three years for it to grow out to this length again; when he was 15, he cut it embarrassingly short. He looked hideous, but at least he couldn’t ever pull it into a ponytail. Sometimes he pitches to do it, even now, but he knows that his features are wrong, too much of his father mixed in. He sneers at his reflection and pulls at the wrinkles in his IKEA shirt.

(His father probably won’t be happy with him staying an employee at IKEA forever. He _should_ move higher up in the ranks sometime.)

He pulls on a scarf and a coat, then his boots, and trudges off towards his workplace.

(How would Bunce survive the day without scintillating conversation from him, though?)

The painting of bronze curls and blue, blue eyes is still there. It feels more and more like a part of the landscape now. The swastikas are _also_ still there, but they’ve been transformed into flowers. The boy is now wearing a flower crown, flowers all around him too. The mole under his left eye has been turned into a flower as well. His laughing mouth has been re-done, the color covering the spots where the symbol had cropped up.

He walks in and checks his phone before he locks his locker. Still no messages from Mordelia. He taps out an apology for blowing up on her since that’s probably the reason she hasn’t texted him since.

 _I know you didn’t really know her_ , he adds. _I can’t get past it. You wouldn’t understand. I can’t go back._

She texts back after half an hour of work – he jumps behind a shelf and unlocks the phone to read, _Dad’s awful these days. I miss you. I wish you’d still play for us._

He bites his lip and taps. _Love you Mordelia._ He sends it, and then deletes the text, as though the sappiness of it has offended him mortally. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Mordelia texts back a heart emoji, and a link to a youtube video, to chipmunks singing ‘We Go Together’ from Grease.

He snorts unattractively and tucks his phone away before Bunce can see him texting and berate him. This summer she spent half an hour lecturing him on why he shouldn’t use his phone, to then turn around to snapchat with _her_ friends.

She simply raises her eyebrows at him anytime he ever informs her of the hypocrisy she’s displaying, telling him that since he is related to the director of this IKEA, he should not be slacking. She, however, she happily informs him, does not have any such familial ties to the firm, and as such has no true obligation to it.

Bunce is kind of a bitch.

She proves this clearly when she later that day informs him that she’d survive without him pretty well, to which he implores her to jump into a volcano. She tells him to go roll himself in honey and attract bears. Whatever. She totally loves him.

(Besides, he’s not really into bears, he’s a little more into twinks, he tells her with a snarl.)

(It’s not exactly a _lie_. He can’t stomach the endless optimism of twinks, but on the other hand, they are often wildly attractive, and making out with them is _amazing_. They’ve got the build he’s into.)

(He always tells himself that it’s only because he doesn’t want to bother with listening to them talk before getting off, but he knows it isn’t true.)

He tells her that he has to help a customer, and runs off.

He is, in fact, so busy _running off_ , that he runs straight _into_ someone. They both fall over, and Baz is sure that his nose almost broke upon impact with the floor.

It’s the stuff that meet-cute fanfiction is made of, he thinks. It’s a shame no one thinks about the fact that running into people actually _hurt_ , or that he’s not the slightest bit interested in the pretty, blushing blonde maiden who is picking herself off the floor.

She’s straightening herself up and fixing her hair with a quick hand. Looking down, he notices a hairpin with a pink flower on the floor.

He picks it up and smiles charmingly at the girl to signal an apology. “Here’s your flower.” She blushes wildly.

He can kind of understand why; because it _is_ the stuff of fanfiction. A guy handing you a flower is one of the most cliché ways he will show affection, but, looking at the girl, Baz feels like vomiting. She’s such a pretty girl; if he had to cast her as a stereotype, he’d likely cast her as the head cheerleader in high school, on the arm of the quarterback, who kept her there as the trophy he showed off.

That’s why she’s looking at him with red cheeks as she picks the flower-pin from his hand and puts it on.

She wants to be someone else. She thinks he could be what would make her that person.

Like he said; it’s the stuff of fanfiction.

“My name’s Agatha,” the girl says prettily, daintily.

He smiles awkwardly and salutes her. “Well, Agatha, I’ve got to go. Costumers to serve.”

He strides away quickly, eager to put distance between her and her hopeful eyes.

He’s not a fucking cure for this girl and her pathetic life.

There are times when fanfiction just isn’t the same thing as reality.

*

“I need coffee…” Bunce drawls tiredly after a 5-hour shift, brushing her purple hair out of her eyes after she pulls off her IKEA shirt, revealing a tank top underneath. Micah – the hot boyfriend - is standing patiently next to her – grocery bag in his hand and a besotted look in his eyes as he looks at her. Baz wonders if asking her how she dyes her hair that deep a color would sound like he was trying to be friendly, deciding that yes, it would sound just like that, and decides not to ask. He’s not fucking friends with Bunce.

“Do you think Simon stole the butter from our fridge again?” she asks, but it’s apparently a rhetorical question because she just continues, “of course he has. I shouldn’t have given him the emergency keys to our apartment Micah, the boy steals all our fucking butter!”

“Maybe we should change the lock sometime?” Micah suggests. “Or lock up the butter?”

“And leave my best friends without a way to get any butter? What kind of friend do you think I am?” Bunce says, pretending to be outraged, yet laughing loudly. She kisses Micah’s nose.

Affection. Disgusting.

“Agatha is waiting outside, by the way,” Micah adds. “She says she needs to discuss your decision to dye your tips periwinkle blue this weekend.”

Bunce groans, resting her head against her Harry Potter-look-a-like boyfriend’s shoulder. “Let me guess, she’s also wearing a horrid pink dress and wants me to conform to gender norms?”

Micah grins slyly. “The pink dress, yes. The gender norms, I don’t know about.”

“I swear, I’m going to start wearing a wizard’s cape around her soon,” Bunce exclaims in annoyance.

As though the louder voice jolts him back to life, Baz remembers that he’s not even friends with Bunce, and he has no reason to stand and wait for her to finish speaking. He quickly walks off, ignoring Agatha who’s waiting eagerly by the exit to the employees. Dan, another part-time employee is walking in, not taking notice of Agatha, as she’s about ten years too young for him, but saluting Baz as they walk past each other.

Baz decides that his punishment for the lapse of judgment will be to ignore the painting of the boy, and ignore the coffee shop, not looking for the cute barista.

So Baz doesn’t notice the bronze haired boy eating butter with a spoon and talking happily with another barista, doesn’t notice the tune of _push and pull like a magnet do_ playing as he enters and asks for a pumpkin spice latte, doesn’t notice the way the boy has scribbled snowflakes all over his nametag instead of his name, doesn’t burn his fingers or his tongue on the coffee. He doesn’t notice a thing. Not even the traitorous flowers inside him, who have decided to foster butterflies.

He’s ignoring him, after all. The flowers in his stomach can shut up.

**Things Baz listens to in this:**

[We Go Together (Grease) – Chipmunk version.](https://www.google.dk/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwjg5K240O3WAhXFIlAKHZUoAigQtwIIJTAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DMCFTA_bmP30&usg=AOvVaw1k0PJRJVqnbSahm7A8WPQP)

Shape of you by Ed Sheeran


End file.
